| THE EPISTOLARIAN |

Do you ever notice how quickly a dream can dissolve under the weight of someone else’s realism?

You begin to speak—just a sentence or two—about something you’re building, imagining, reaching toward, and suddenly there’s a shift in the room. It’s not overt. The person listening might even nod, murmur something encouraging. But there’s a flicker, a micro-expression, a kind of sympathetic disbelief that’s hard to name but easy to feel. You’re no longer in the shared world of real possibility—you’ve drifted into the realm of what they think could never be.

I’ve felt this flicker often. It’s the side effect, I suppose, of dreaming very big. Not just abstractly big, but sensorially, cinematically big. My dreams arrive full-bodied. I don’t merely want to teach and create art—I want to do it while traveling the world, in salons scented with citrus blossoms, among kindred spirits, with time for tea and letters, surrounded by beauty so thick it feels like velvet on the air. I can see it. I can feel it. It doesn’t feel like fantasy—it feels like memory from the future.

But to those rooted in practicality, who believe the future is built only by retracing the past, this kind of vision can sound like wishful thinking. They don’t mean to be dismissive. They may even love you. But we’re socialized into skepticism. We’re taught to forecast only what seems likely, and to tether desire to precedent. If it hasn’t happened yet, why should it happen for you?

But that’s the fundamental fallacy, isn’t it? Most lives aren’t shaped by likelihood. They’re shaped by rupture. By the sudden illness, the unexpected love, the job that didn’t work out, the stranger who became family. Growth—real growth—is rarely linear. And the dreams that matter most—the ones we ache for—don’t come from logic. They come from something much older and stranger and more elemental. They come from magic.

I don’t mean “magic” in the glitter-drenched sense. I mean magic as a way of knowing, a way of moving through the world with conviction that defies data and trends. It’s not even thinking, really—it’s a feeling so deep in your chest that to name it “hope” or “ambition” would diminish its power. It’s not wishful. It’s trulutional.

Yes, trulutional—a word I coined because “delusional” suggests folly, a departure from truth. But trulutional dreams are a kind of truth—visions so real, so encoded in your being, that you hold them until they take shape. Because in some reality, at some time, if all time is folded at once, they already exist. It’s a truth to believe in, even if it’s still a vision

Years ago, long before I created the Hastings Étui, I dreamed of being paid to travel the world and teach my art—not in drab rooms under fluorescent lights, but in lush, light-filled places, with people who saw the world in the same rich hues. I imagined beauty, ease, and depth. That dream lives on, and it’s slowly becoming reality. But I remember, in those early days, how often I would share it with people—people I adored—and see that flicker. That kind of gentle, smiling doubt.

Over time, I’ve learned to be careful with whom I share my dreams. Not everyone can hold your magic—and that’s not a flaw, just a matter of resonance. Some people aren’t tuned to your frequency. They may love you, but their realism can still puncture something delicate.

I’m a chameleon by nature—able to slip easily into other people’s worlds. It’s a gift. But when I linger too long in smaller ones shaped by scarcity or resignation, I begin to shrink my own without noticing. I don’t cast these people out—I love them—but I’ve stopped asking them to believe in what they can’t yet see. Instead, I hold the vision quietly, like an ember, and tend to it—not with proof, but with practice. In time, they’ll see it too, once it takes physical form.

In the meantime, I use vision boards. I write letters to myself from the future. I remind myself daily of what’s coming—not with urgency, but with certainty. I focus not on the entire staircase but on the next right step. These practices keep the magic alive in my body, so when doubt arises, I know where to return.

And time has taught me: these trulutional dreams often come true. I dreamed of owning a museum-quality antique seal collection, long before I had the means or connections to do so. Now, I have one—each piece arriving as if by magic. I dreamed of teaching my art with elegance and ease, and I now do. I dreamed of my children before I was even pregnant. I knew them before I met them. I often know things before they happen because I’ve already seen the vision of them.

Already, I see glimmers. And I’m not done. I dream of slow, silken trips through Kyrgyzstan to collect stories, textures, and stamps. I dream of my wax seals housed in the V&A and the Louvre. I dream of my novel being loved for centuries to come. Why not?

If it’s in your heart, it’s for you. Not always instantly. Not always in your comfort zone. But definitely. The heart doesn’t make these things up. It remembers what is already true.

So I invite you—especially if you’re a creative—to name your own. To feel them fully. To step into them as if they’re already beginning. Because they are.

And because the world is, in fact, as big and beautiful as you allow it to be.

Mark Your Calendars

Friday, April 25, 2025

• The Newest Hastings Penny will be shown this Friday at Noon Pacific (3pm Eastern)
• This Friday, you'll also see a new Pride & Prejudice Seal in honor of the 250th anniversary of Jane Austen's birth this year. Only 11 available.

Sunday, April 27, 2025

• The next Hastings penny will be available for purchase next Sunday with the new moon. The last one sold out quickly; so be sure to mark your calendars. 

Seal of the Week: Qui me cherche me trouve

This seal depicts a delicate flower just beginning to emerge from behind slender blades of grass—subtle, almost hidden, yet unmistakably present to the attentive eye. It’s a quiet emblem of becoming. Inscribed in French are the words "Qui me cherche me trouve," meaning, “Whoever seeks me finds me.”

There’s something profoundly trulutional about this phrase—a reminder that what we long for often exists just out of sight, waiting for us to recognize it. The dream, the beauty, the calling—it doesn’t vanish because others overlook it. It waits. It grows in silence. And for those with the vision to seek it, it reveals itself as if it had always been there.

Color of the Week: Viennese Violet

This color embodies the enchanting spirit of Vienna. Named Viennese Violet it calls to mind the hues of violet flowers and the aromatic scents that drift through the city. It brings back memories of the sugared violets from the famed Demel patisserie, once favored by Empress Sisi, yet its allure extends much further.

Viennese Violet captures the essence of leisurely days exploring the city's exquisite gardens and galleries. It echoes the sentiment of Billy Joel’s song "Vienna," which praises the beauty of a slow, deliberate life awaiting our embrace. This color invites us to pause and relish each moment.